darling, smile
by Shiluette
Summary: In which Ryoma pursues the arts of photography and Keigo is the not-so- indulgent model. Miscommunications and endearments follow. Atoryo.


A snippet from one of my story dumps.

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Keigo thought he would be a natural at this. He was raised to exert patience and prided himself on the fact that he could hold still for hours while a portrait was drawn up (it is still there, the family portrait, it must be, somewhere in that ghastly mansion): a serene face with a hint of a smugness that his mother had taught him, a slight raise of his eyebrows. He was good at holding his posture, all his tutors could attest to this. So the problem does not lie with him. He raises his nose higher.

Across, Ryoma pulls back from his camera and glares at him. "Do you mind?" he snaps, what it seems to be his catchphrase of the day. "For the last time, don't act like a fucking diva. It's not about that."

"Pray tell me, then, what it _is_ about," Keigo mutters under his breath before he could stop himself. He bites his lips and frowns; he had promised himself inwardly, that he would rise above the crudeness in which Ryoma was enacting his art. Photos, he had said, Some photos for his next exhibition that Keigo might be able to help out, if he had the time. Keigo, fool that he was and trusting of Ryoma's mastery in his craft, had smirked and drawled, _well, isn't that a fine excuse to capture the brilliance that I emit? _

Ryoma, strange as it was, did not roll his eyes. He had smiled and lowered his eyes; asked, "So is that a yes, then?" Keigo should have had it coming; Ryoma was never obliging unless he had an ulterior motive.

Now, Ryoma is swiping his hair back roughly, clicking his teeth; he is tinkering with his camera and scowling at the photos they had taken. Keigo thinks he hears the dreadful sound of multiple clicks.

"Surely you can salvage at least one?" he says again, against his preserving will. He is tired; they had been at this since morning and Keigo would desperately like another cup of coffee before he could face his papers again.

"No," Ryoma says, without looking at him; his voice his haggard but brisk. "You're posing like one of those snots in the nineteenth century. I'm not trying to take your melancholic attributes, I'm trying to…." he stops and sighs; tsks again. "You signed up for this," he says; now he is blaming him, is he? "You wanted to—what was it?—capture the brilliance that you emitted."

"I did not expect it would involve some new avant-garde movement I was partaking in," he snipes. He shifts in his seat. Ryoma had instructed him to lounge in the single armchair with his hands splayed. That was all easy and well; that was all he ever did in a chair like this. What was confounding was the face.

"Nothing," Ryoma had said, peering into Keigo's eyes and frowning, adjusting his hair without the slightest teasing intent (that nerved him, Keigo would admit later, Ryoma's eyes then) "Show nothing on your face. Blank. You're good at that, yeah?"

"It's not something new," Ryoma says, "It's just that you suck at this. Admit it, all you ever took were photos made by some lackeys."

"Are you calling my ignorance of art?"

Ryoma doesn't even pretend to think about it. "Yeah," he says, and smirks. So he is not yet too tired to goad him. Keigo rolls his eyes. "But we're not going into that right now."

"Yes, we are, if my reputation as an art enthusiast is at jeopardy—"

"Oh, shut up," Ryoma cuts off, and walks towards him. "Mask your face again. Nothing. Rien. Nichts." He pauses. "What else?"

"I know the meaning," Keigo says, leaning back. "Although, I'm surprised you know so many languages concerning that very word. You must be obsessed with this void."

"I googled it up on my phone when you were twitching," Ryoma says, "It was better than chucking it at your head."

Keigo scowls.

Ryoma's hands mark him: his fingers trace the curve of his shoulders and adjusts the arm that leans back, pats down his shirt, and when everything is to his satisfaction, flicks Keigo's nose. Keigo's scowl deepens. "I didn't know being a photographer gave you such liberties," he says.

"It doesn't," Ryoma agrees, and gives him a sharp smirk; silently communicating other positions gave him such liberties. Keigo wonders if a hard kiss and a push against the floor would call everything off. It would just get him a swift kick, he decides glumly. Instead he voices out a reasonable complaint, "I can't school my features into nothing if I don't know what you want. Elaborate on this nothingness."

Ryoma frowns and takes a step back. He appraises Keigo with a tilt of his head and takes another moment to answer. "You have that face when nobody's looking," he says. Another pause. "I can't figure it out."

"So I should space out," Keigo says dryly, "Is that what you're implying?"

Ryoma shrugs. "Whatever that means, sure."

"You are impossible," Keigo declares, and rests his full back against the back of the chair; all the wrinkles and creases that Ryoma had straightened out reappears; Ryoma makes a face but doesn't lean over again. "I hope that this exhibition is a complete failure and you will resort back to taking conventional photography again. _Nichts_ indeed."

"Such a supporting boyfriend I have," Ryoma deadpans, and perhaps it was the tone or the offhand mention; Keigo does not mull it over. By the time he realizes the implications, Ryoma had already taken his position at the camera and was clicking away.


End file.
